


Tumblr Drabbles

by phdmama



Category: Multi-Fandom
Genre: Based on a Tumblr Post, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-03
Updated: 2018-12-03
Packaged: 2019-09-06 12:12:32
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 12,441
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16832392
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phdmama/pseuds/phdmama
Summary: In light of the new content restrictions on Tumblr, I'm going to try and post all of my drabbles here. I decided for now, just to get them up, I'm going to put them in a multi-chapter fic, and then maybe someday migrate them. Who am I kidding, they'll stay this way until I die. Huzzah!





	1. A Tiny Little Drarry Christmas Drabble

(Originally published De. 22, 2017. Gifted to: femmequixotic, noeeon, bixgirl1, firethesound, lqtraintracks, dictacontrion)

_This is just a silly thing that came to me today, and since I’m barely writing at all right now, it felt good to get something down on paper! This also goes out as a thank you to some of the Drarry writers that I’ve followed and loved for so long now. (I hope it’s okay to dedicate a Christmas-themed drabble to you all!).[@femmequixotic](https://tmblr.co/mokBvaE6sqrJ2SHiCr3HtfA) [@noeeon](https://tmblr.co/mIv31xJ18xUfk3Ziy9D5rSQ)[@bixgirl1](https://tmblr.co/mcnzBwaPrc2gQ2VMN48k0SQ) [@firethesound](https://tmblr.co/m4Mu51v9glr0VIMcFvWGihg) [@lqtraintracks](https://tmblr.co/mOz3rQ_YF0PQvbnvFDNXElw) [@dictacontrion](https://tmblr.co/mlaW5S4QI6qe0APwy0D8KHQ) Thank you so much for the hour and hours of enjoyment your work has given me!!_

Draco makes his way through the crowd in Diagon Alley. It’s packed, which is only to be expected this close to Christmas. It’s the 24th, mid-afternoon, and Draco has finished his shopping, but restlessness has sent him from his cozy flat a few blocks away to brave the madness that is wizarding London on Christmas Eve. He wanders down the cobblestone street. It’s snowing lightly, and the lampposts lining the street are draped with evergreen garland and red and gold bows. _Fifteen years later_ , he thinks, _and we’re still decorating in Gryffindor colors._

He runs over his gift list in his mind, thinking of the variety of things he’s picked out for the random assortment of characters who’ve found their way into his life. Like everything else about it, nothing is like what he thought it would be, and he gives thanks for that daily.

He notes the mood of the crowd, mostly festive with an undercurrent of stress, mainly heard in the voices of the mothers as they shepherd their children past the tempting window displays.

“For the last time, Alex,” one exasperated witch says firmly to her son, who cannot be more than five, “I am not buying that organic crup food.” Her voice fades into the crowd as Draco hears, “We don’t even _have_ a crup,” over the wails of her devastated offspring.

He smiles and decides to head into Flourish and Blotts, as they can always use some last-minute stocking stuffers. He’s looking over his choices in colour-changing ink gel pens, and contemplating whether the hassle of glitter getting everywhere ( _absolutely everywhere,_ he remembers with a grimace) is worth the joy that he knows a certain child will feel at having the latest iteration of these monstrosities, when it happens.

He glances up to see a familiar tousled head of a man standing a few steps away, looking at the decorative mug display, and as if drawn by a magnet, green eyes meet his own, and narrow.

“Malfoy.” Potter’s voice is flat, even. “Last minute Christmas shopping?”

Draco narrows his eyes in return. _What the hell?_ What has he done now?

“Actually, my shopping’s been done for ages. Everything’s even wrapped.”

Potter frowns. “What are you doing here, then?”

Draco sighs, “Always so suspicious, Potter. I’m soaking up the festive atmosphere, of course.”

Potter looks around at the crowd, and they both wince as a toddler, somewhere in the depths of the store, winds up for what sounds to be a truly righteous strop. He glances back at Draco and lifts one eyebrow. “Really?”

“Well,” Draco concedes, “I might be thinking of a couple of last-minute additions. You?”

Potter shrugs. “Same.” He seems to come to a decision, grabs a couple of mugs off of the display, and as he brushes past Draco to head to the counter to pay, he says, “See you.”

*****

Draco sits curled up against the plump cushions that line the window seat that looks out onto the lane. It’s dark and outside the snow is still falling gently, shimmering in the glow of the street lamps. The fire is burning, the sparkling lights of the tree behind him are reflected in the glass of the window, he’s got a glass of wine and the latest paperback from his favourite author, and almost everything is right in the world. There’s only one other thing he needs.

He hears the sound of footsteps in the hall, and the door to the flat opens, and a voice calls out, “Draco? Where are you, love?”

“In the living room,” Draco calls back, feeling the missing piece slot into place as Harry drops several bags by the front door and makes his way into the room.

He smiles up at his partner of ten years now, and wiggles closer to the window to make room for Harry to slide onto the seat next to him. Harry wraps his arms around Draco and buries his nose in Draco’s neck.

“Fuck’s sake, Harry, you’re freezing.”

“It’s cold out,” Harry says, unrepentant, “And you might not have noticed, but it’s snowing.”

“I could hardly not notice,” Draco grumbles, “Since you’re rubbing snow all over me.”

Harry pulls back to give an exaggerated leer. “That’s not all I could rub all over you, if you were up for it.”

“Harry,” Draco says, exasperated, “You know there’s no time. We’re due at the Burrow in thirty minutes. I’ve finished all the wrapping, so all you have to do is shower and change. But you need to go _now_ , you know what happens if we’re late.”

Harry tightens his hold on Draco for one more moment, and then sighs. “Fine. I’ll go get ready.”

He stands and as he makes his way down the hall, he calls over his shoulder, “I do think you’re severely underestimating us both though.”

“Well, I’ll have to live with that tragedy. Anyway, ” Draco says, knowing Harry’s penchant for long, moody showers, particularly around the holidays, which can be hard for both them, though ten years of new memories have helped to ease the pain of all they’ve lost, “You need to move it along. If we’re late, you’re wearing the hat.”

Somehow, over the years, a tradition has been born that the last person to arrive for the annual Christmas Eve family celebration has to wear the Santa Hat, complete with reindeer horns which moo for some inexplicable reason, and Draco’s had to wear it for the last three years, and he’ll be damned if he’s wearing it again this year. It’s itchy.

“Fine, I’ll wear it if we’re late,” Harry says as he heads down the hallway to their bedroom. “Can you help me figure out which jumper to wear?”

That’s the other Christmas tradition, everyone finds the ugliest Christmas jumper they can, which are then ceremonially switched out for the annual Molly handknit gift during the present exchange portion of the evening.

“I got you a new one,” Draco calls and he hears a delighted cry from the bedroom.

“Oh, that’s hideous. Thanks, love.”

Draco grins to himself as he stands and follows Harry into their bedroom. The jumper is spread out on the bed, as garish a thing as Draco has ever see. It’s a rainbow pattern, and there is a festive, bare-chested Father Christmas riding a narwhalicorn, who leaves trail of sparkles from its horn. Draco snickers and smooths his hands over his own jumper, which has a naked elf, bits strategically covered by ornaments, dancing around and occasionally shouting out “Got balls?” It’s horrendous and he loves it.

He wanders into the bathroom, where the air is thick with steam and redolent with Harry’s pine-scented shower gel.

“I got those glitter pens for Rose, since we were one gift short for her,” he says.

“Ahh, is that what you were doing?” Harry replies, gurgling a bit under the force of the shower.

“Yes, I meant to ask you,” Draco says, “What was all that ‘Malfoy’ stuff about? I mean, you know I don’t mind a spot of roleplay here and there, but it seemed a bit out of the blue.”

The water turns off, and Draco grabs a towel, casts a quick warming charm and hands it to Harry as he steps out onto the bathmat.

“That,” Harry says in a tone of immense satisfaction, “Is dinner on Ron next week when we go out for New Year’s Eve.”

“What?” Baffled, Draco stares at him and then it hits him. “Oh good lord, you’ve been betting again, haven’t you?”

Harry towels off and grins. “Yeah. He bet me that if I called you Malfoy in public, you wouldn’t go along with it. I’ve been waiting for the perfect opportunity. He thought you’d get confused and ask me what the hell I was doing.”

“You’re idiots, the both of you,” Draco opines as he heads back into the bedroom. “How did you know I wouldn’t, then, anyway?”

Harry follows him back into the room, towel slung low around his hips, and Draco takes a moment to admire the broad chest and toned arms. Even after ten years together, there are still these moments that make his heart race.

Harry shrugs, and pulls on his pants, and then a pair of well-tailored woollen trousers. He grabs a t-shirt out of his drawer and yanks it over his head, then picks up the jumper from the bed.

“I know you. You’ve never backed down from a challenge in your life, have you? I knew you wouldn’t be able to resist it.”

“Fine,” Draco sighs. “I do wish you’d leave me out of these ridiculous bets, though. One of these days you’ll get it wrong.”

Harry moves over and yanks Draco into a quick kiss. “No, I won’t. Not when I’m betting on you.”


	2. Lesson for Drarry!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Originally published: Mar 23, 2018

_Thank you darling!! This was supposed to be a little 100 word drabble and it turned into 1000 words of… this_

They land at the same time, dropping their brooms in a synchronized dance that Harry might thinks means something if it weren’t for this particular dance partner.

“I caught it!” Draco’s voice is exuberant, and Harry thinks he hears a note of snide triumph in it. “I fucking caught it. Fair and square, Potter.”

Harry grits his teeth. Draco is right, is the thing. He really had won fairly. Granted, he’d seen the snitch because Harry had been distracted by the sight of Draco’s ass in soft, grey, cotton joggers, but Harry’s got nobody to blame for that but himself and his own unruly libido. And Draco can’t just be a gracious fucking winner, can he. He has to rub Harry’s nose in it.

Draco stands, one hip cocked out, the late afternoon sun illuminating him like he’s been gilded and Harry can’t breathe. He can’t understand this longing in himself. It’s not that he hates Draco anymore, not by a long shot. Ever since the Sorting Hat paired them up as roommates, first for the reconstruction and now for their delayed 8th year, they’ve learned to get along. Harry’s not quite sure when he first started noticing Draco’s jaw, covered with light stubble in the mornings. Or the way his lips look when he sucks on the tip of his quill, deep in thought. Or the way his thighs, lean and muscled, clench around a broom. No, whatever Harry feels for Draco, it’s not hate. It’s…. complicated.

Draco Malfoy, Harry thinks, has complicated motherfucker written into his DNA.

“I mean,” Draco taunts, holding up the snitch, wings fluttering as he tosses it into the air and carelessly catches it again, “Aren’t you supposed to be the best seeker since Glynnis Griffiths? Of course,” his tone turns mockingly thoughtful, “It did take her seven days to catch the thing. Sorry to interrupt your search, Potter.”

“Enough,” Harry grits out through clenched teeth. “Enough, Malfoy. You won, okay? Are you finished yet?”

“Oh no,” Draco snickers, his eyes narrowing. “Not even close, Potter. I’m just fucking getting started. You are not showing the proper respect. I’m going to have to teach you a lesson.”

“Fine.” Harry takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. “Whatever.”

Draco begins doing a little dance, complete with fancy footwork and fingersnaps, and apparently, there’s a song that goes with it. As Harry turns away to head back to the locker room to shower and change, he can’t help the smile that crosses his face as he listens to Draco sing in a reedy tenor, “I’m the best, and you’re the worst, I’ll be praised and you’ll be cursed, I’m the best and you’re the woooooorst….”

He and Malfoy have been playing these Seekers games for weeks now, and this is the first time that Draco has out-and-out won without a dash to the finish line, as it were. It’s too bad that it’s a Hogsmeade Saturday, Harry thinks. Everyone’s off in the village, so there’s no one to witness Draco’s triumph.

“Wait just a minute,” Malfoy says, and Harry pauses, turns around and quirks one eyebrow at Malfoy in the way he knows the other man hates.

“Yeah? What’s up?”

“It’s just.’” Malfoy runs a frustrated hand through his hair. “I fucking _won_ , Potter, and you’re just all _yeah_ and _whatever_? Going off to shower? I _won_.”

Malfoy’s tone is equal parts bewildered and frustrated and, snickering to himself, Harry turns his back again to walk away. Merlin help him but he does love to wind Malfoy up.

He’s almost to the locker room when Malfoy catches up to him, grabbing him by the wrist and spinning him around. He looks wild-eyed, and so deeply alive that Harry’s mouth actually waters at the sight of him, sweat on his upper lip, hair wind-tossed and mussed.

“What?” Harry snaps, making sure to sound aggravated by Malfoy’s manhandling.

“Why are you so fucking calm? I beat you! To the snitch!”

“I know,” Harry says patiently, secretly delighted that he’s apparently found yet another way to piss Malfoy off. “I know you did… Draco.”

He pulls his arm away, thrilling at the touch of Draco’s fingers on his skin, and yanks the door to the locker room open. He can practically feel Draco’s warm breath on his neck as he heads to his locker.

“Are you feeling okay?” Draco ask suddenly, as Harry sets down his gloves and makes a mental note to retrieve his broom after he gets changed. “I mean, you’re not usually so.. calm.”

Harry looks up, and their eyes meet and hold. It feels, Harry thinks, as if a Fizzing Whizzbee has been set off just under the surface of his skin. The moment stretches out into a silence that should feel awkward, but doesn’t. It feels electric, like lightning is about to strike right here, in this dim and slightly manky locker room that smells of sweat and broom polish.

“Oh,” Draco says softly, and Harry’s eyes widen at his tone.

It’s soft and questioning and hopeful and thrilled, and suddenly Harry understands that he’s not alone in this madness he’s not quite ready to name. That whatever it is he’s feeling, Draco is right here with him.

“Draco,” he says roughly, and there’s a need coursing through him and he thinks slightly frantically that if he doesn’t kiss Draco right the fuck now, he might actually die.

When he thinks about it later, he’ll never be sure who moved first, but then they’re both in motion. Draco is grabbing him by the front of his sweater and hauling him to his feet even as Harry is reaching up to cup Draco’s face with his hands, reveling in the feel of Draco’s wind-cooled cheeks beneath his fingertips.

There’s a pause, a breath, a moment of choice and then Harry smirks, he just can’t quite help himself.

“Go on then,” he whispers, “Teach me a lesson, Draco.”

Draco crashes their mouths together and Harry is lost.


	3. Everything In Its Own Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> huge huge THANKS to @suddenclarityharry for the manip and the inspiration! She sent me the manip and this idea: “Rita Skeeter keeps going on about how Harry sleeps with every woman he’s ever seen with so he posts this on Instagram?” And this happened.
> 
> Originally posted on Tumblr: 6 July 2018

Harry tosses the Prophet aside with a snarl, and leans over to rest his face in his hands. Draco sits up with a start.

“Are you okay?”

Harry slumps back on the overstuffed cushions of their monstrosity of a couch.

“I’m just so fucking sick of this. Every single day, something new about how I’m shagging this witch or that witch.” He heaves a sigh. “Why can’t they just leave me alone.”

He topples over to rest his head against Draco’s thigh, who’s got his feet propped up on the sturdy coffee table as he reads what Harry _thought_ was the latest _Potions Mastery_ journal. That the cover photo is of a very attractive, muscular and distinctly bare-chested wizard, robes tied around his waist, thrusting his wand at a steaming cauldron as he wipes away the sweat from his brow, is not lost on Harry and he twists to stare up at Draco.

“What on earth are you reading?”

Draco flushes and closes the journal with snap and drops it face down on the table.

“Nothing,” he says hastily and Harry snakes out a hand to grab it.

Draco tries to reach it first, but Harry is too fast, and rolling onto the floor, crawls away with the magazine. Draco slides off the sofa after him and snags him by the ankles, and Harry cackles as he examines the journal, realizing that it’s not the Potion Master’s guild journal that he had thought it was, but rather something else entirely, something entitled “Potions MASTERS” that has such article teasers as “The 10 Sexiest Potions Ingredients” and “Brewing Naked: The Pleasure and the Peril [PHOTOS].” Harry flips through the journal, his eyes going very wide as he stares at the centerfold.

“Fucking hell,” he breathes as Draco lands on his back, pressing him into the dusty carpet, and snatches the journal from his hands. “Draco, what the fuck?”

“It’s Blaise’s fault,” Draco says desperately, throwing the magazine across the room where it lands in the corner with a thud. “He left it here last week?”

Harry manages to squirm around under Draco to roll onto his back, so that he and Draco are uncomfortably close, eye-to-eye, and examines Draco, who looks flushed and a bit disheveled.

“I was just looking at it,” Draco insists and Harry can’t help the grin that crosses his face.

“Well, that is generally what one does with this, err, sort of literature.”

Harry notes sadly that Draco has rolled off of him and is now lying next to him on the floor, blushing madly.

“Shut it, Potter. It’s not like I was looking to wax my wand right on the couch.”

Harry can’t help the shriek of laughter. “Wax your wand? _Wax your wand_??” He spins right over on top of Draco who half-heartedly shoves him away, but Harry knows better. “That is _not_ what they call it, is it?”

Draco snickers a bit and refuses to meet Harry’s eyes. “They really do.” His smile drops for a moment. “Harry, about the Prophet.”

“Uggh.” Harry rolls away, towards the fireplace this time, and thinks briefly that if he’d known he was going to be spending this much time on the carpet, he’d have cast a stronger cleaning charm during Household Chores Time earlier.

It turns out that living with Draco comes with some interesting rules and regulations. There’s Mandatory Cleaning Time on Tuesdays, Baking on Sundays, and Harry’s Favorite, Spa-Time Saturdays, where they take a bubble bath and Draco tries some new skin care product on Harry and Harry tells him what it feels like. Draco’s skin is too sensitive for anything but pure rose oil and tea tree for the occasional blemish, but he still loves to purchase products.

Ron has opined more than once that the sort of schedule Draco dictates would drive him mad, but Harry _gets_ it. Draco had spent so much of his youth under the will of others that as an adult, he’s swung to the opposite extreme, setting up rituals and mandates that _he_ controls, that make him feel safe, and far be it for Harry to deny Draco what he needs. Harry had finally explained it to Ron, that his own childhood had been so chaotic, he’d never known when the rules would change, when what had been allowed on Tuesday would be prohibited on Saturday, that he finds Draco’s rigidity comforting. They complement each other.

And besides, Spa-Time Saturday almost always turns into Shagging Saturday, so Harry can’t really complain. Not that he tells Ron that. Ron knows.

“No,” Draco insists, and shifts closer to wrap his arms around Harry from behind. “I think we need to talk about it.”

“Fine,” Harry huffs. “When did you become so emotionally capable anyway.”

Draco jabs him in the ribs with a pointy elbow. “I’ve always been. I’ve just been waiting for you to catch up, so I’m giving you a poke.”

“I’ll give you a poke,” Harry leers, but his heart’s not really in it. He glances back to look at Draco. “Fine, what do you want to talk about?”

Draco takes a deep breath, and Harry feels his heart start to pound at the look on Draco’s face.

They’re out to everyone who matters. Their friends, family. It’s taken a few years, but things have settled down. It’s just, Draco is so private. Harry gets it, he does, and he’s worked so hard not to push. If it were up to him, he’d give an interview right this minute to Rita fucking Skeeter herself about who Draco is, who he’s become, and what he means to Harry, but Draco’s been hesitant.

It’s gotten better but it’s not easy. There’s still the occasional look and under-the-breath muttered comment, although no hexes have been thrown in years. Draco is regularly seen in the company of Harry or Hermione (with whom he works closely at St. Mungo’s and has developed a strong and warm friendship that delights Harry to his core, namely because it means he doesn’t have to talk potions theory with Draco on Pub Night). That seems to help, but it’s not perfect.

Harry knows Draco is sensitive, knows he takes every perceived slight to heart. Harry wishes he could build a wall around Draco so that he never has to feel insecure or overwhelmed again, but he also knows, walls too often become prisons.

If it were up to him, he’d take out an ad, send up a Periculum to write “Harry Potter Loves Draco Malfoy” in green sparks in the sky, hire the broom guy with the giant, color-changing, sparkly signs, but Draco’s been resistant so far. Harry holds a secret fear deep in his heart that one day Draco will say ‘enough is enough,’ that he can’t take the scrutiny Harry lives under, that all he wants is to be left alone, and he’ll move out, and, Harry is pretty sure, that will break something within him that he might not recover from.

“I think,” Draco says, taking a deep breath, “I think we should tell them.”

Harry sits bolt upright and stares at Draco, who is stretched out next to him, a small smile playing about his lips.

“What?” Harry gasps, and inhaling a bit of saliva, starts to choke.

Draco rolls his eyes and sits up to thump Harry firmly on the back. He grabs a glass from the table and quickly fills it with water, and Harry sips, wiping his eyes, and tranquility is restored.

“You okay?” Draco asks, rubbing Harry between the shoulder blades, and Harry leans into his touch.

“Yeah, just. Can you repeat that? Maybe elaborate a bit?” Harry anxiously sips his water, reassuring himself that it didn’t sound like Draco was breaking up with him, but needing to hear a bit more.

“I said,” Draco says quietly, “I think we should tell. I want to tell them.”

“Tell who, what, exactly?” Harry asks.

Draco shrugs and leans over to plant a soft kiss on Harry’s shoulder. “It makes you so upset when the Prophet writes all that crap about you, and honestly,” his expression darkens a bit as his gaze seems to turn inward, “It pisses me off too, when they have you fucking every single woman you stand next to. I know I’ve been the hold-out, but I think we should just. Tell them. Tell everyone. Or show them. Something.”

“Really?” Harry turns to face Draco, reaches up to drag his knuckles down the well-loved contours of his face, the skin that Harry’s traced every square centimeter of with fingertips and tongue. “Do you mean that?”

“I do,” Draco says, and gives a helpless smile as Harry drags his thumb across the bow of Draco’s top lip, “I really do.”

Mind racing, Harry leans back. “What if,” he says suddenly, “What if we just posted a picture on Wizardbook?”

Draco thinks for a moment and then slowly, like sunrise, a smile spreads across his face. “We could do,” he says softly. “That would work.”

“Then, when Rita starts freaking out, I can give her an interview next week,” Harry says, “But if we do it today, right now, Luna can get in it in the Quibbler.” He casts a quick Tempus. “Yeah, the Prophet’s publication deadline was a fucking hour ago, but Quibbler goes later, there’s still about thirty minutes. Let me text her?”

Draco frowns. “It worries me that you know these things,” he says, and Harry shrugs.

“I’ve kind of had to.” He pauses, takes a deep breath. “Are you sure? That you want this? It’s going to make things really crazy.”

Draco nods. “I do. I’ve been thinking about it a while. I just, I’m so tired of hiding. A bit tired, I guess, of all the rules.”

Harry frowns right back at him. “Don’t you dare think you’re getting out of Spa-Time Saturday.”

Draco snorts. “No fucking way. Now, go on, get your phone and text Luna. Let her get the scoop.” He grins, fierce, almost elemental, and Harry is suddenly breathless.

He gets up, and goes into the kitchen, grabs his phone out of the charging station they keep. He comes back in to find Draco on the couch, and settles in next to him. He sends Luna a quick text and gets a series of exclamation points in return that make him smile. He shifts Draco a bit to the side so he’s in front of Harry, and then pulls up the camera app.

“No,” Draco says suddenly as Harry pulls the camera out. “Use the other one, the one with the filters.” He grabs Harry’s phone and quickly pulls up an app Harry didn’t even know he had installed, and scrolls through a few screens before selecting the one that he wants.

Harry holds up the camera, and casts the charm to get make it hover, and then sets the timer going. He wraps his arms around Draco and peeks out from behind him, and the camera counts down until the camera flashes.

They examine the picture and then Draco nods. “Perfect,” he says delightedly, and hands it to Harry, who laughs.

He looks at Draco, his love, his heart, the center of his life, and leans in to kiss him, just once. It’s a kiss of confirmation, of unspoken promises. It’s quick, dry, almost nothing, not even a hint of tongue, and it’s everything, and Harry’s heart aches with loving him.

“You sure?” he asks one more time, and Draco just shoves him.

“Yes, I’m sure. Post it.”

Harry pulls up Wizardbook and taps on the screen. He types quickly, and then adds the picture. He hands it to Draco, who nods, a pleased smile on his face, and Harry takes the phone back, looking once more at the picture and the title, and then, taking a deep breath, he hits post.

He tosses the phone aside as he and Draco look at each other, and then, as Harry’s phone starts to vibrate, Draco grins, stands up, and pulls Harry up after him.

“Come on,” he says, with that same pleased smile still dancing across his lips, “I think this calls for Special Spa Time.”

“But,” Harry says, as he follows Draco down the hall, who’s leaving a trail of clothing behind him as he goes. “It’s only Friday, are you sure?”

“Come on, Potter,” Draco says as he disappears into the bathroom, “Live a little. Don’t be so rule-bound.”

Harry hears the faucet kick on, hears Draco rummaging in the cabinet for whatever his latest purchases are, and laughs, long and loud.

Draco pokes his head out. His hair’s ruffled from where he’s pulled his shirt off, and as Harry watches, he shimmies out of his pants and tosses them into the hall, and then winks at Harry.

“You coming?”

Harry ignores his phone going crazy on the coffee table, and follows Draco into the bathroom. Why should he pay attention to that, he thinks, as he takes an appreciative sniff of the scented steam filling the small room. Everything he needs is right here.


	4. Picture This

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is small, but I haven’t written a thing in ages, so it’s exciting for me. I’m just going to publish it here - warning, it’s quite sappy and fluffy. 900 words (teen+ rating) of Christmas Drarry to get me in the holiday mood.
> 
> Originally posted on Tumblr: 30 November 2018

Draco’s voice is muffled from behind the bathroom door as they’re getting ready for bed.

“You want to what now?”

Harry hears water splashing and rolls onto his stomach to bury his grin in the big fluffy pillows Draco prefers. He can just imagine Draco in there splashing water on his face, towelling off with the crimson towels Harry bought just for him, for which Draco gave him shit for weeks. _Gryffindor towels, Harry? Honestly?_

He lifts his head and says, “I want to get a tree.”

Draco comes out of the bathroom, and he’s so neat and prim in his striped cotton pyjamas that Harry aches to mess him up a little bit. Just ruffle him around the edges, pin him down and…

“Harry.” Draco taps his cheek gently, the way they’d agreed upon. “You’re spacing out. What the fuck are you talking about? What do you mean, get a tree?”

“We saw that lot, on the way home from dinner yesterday, don’t you remember? You were amused that the muggles had set up a forest in a vacant lot, but then…”

Harry flushes as he remembers. He’d meant to explain it to Draco but he’d been so caught up in the way Draco had looked in the lamplight, laughing and open. It’s rare that Harry gets to see him like that out in public, though it’s more common when they’re alone. He’d been compelled to press Draco up against that hedge and kiss him breathless, and by the time they’d gotten back to his flat, he’d been so eager, he’d dropped to his knees right there in his front hallway. Harry doesn’t have the best focus on a good day, and he’d forgotten until now that he’d wanted to tell Draco more.

“Anyway,” Harry says, dragging himself back to the present, “I want to get a tree.”

“Harry,” Draco sighs. “I mean, you can get anything you want, but you do know you live in London, right? You don’t really have much of a garden. Maybe a small tree?” He frowns, staring off into space and then says softly, “A forsythia’d be really nice out front actually.”

It’s Harry’s turn to be perplexed. “What the fuck? A Christmas tree, Draco. Like with lights and ornaments?”

He thinks back to Hogwarts at Christmas and sees the moment it clicks in Draco’s mind.

“I thought we could go on Saturday,” Harry says, his heart in his throat, “And maybe shop for ornaments together.”

“You want a Christmas tree, to decorate it the Muggle way?” Draco says, sitting down on the edge of the bed.

Without thinking, Harry rolls over so that he’s resting his cheek against Draco’s thigh, and takes a deep breath, inhaling the scent of the laundry charm and Draco’s body wash that lives in the shower next to his own.

“Yeah. Is that a problem?”

“I mean, Harry,” Draco says gently, “Do you not know the charms?”

Harry shrugs. “No, I do, I just.”

He tries to find the words to tell Draco about the years he’d spent on the outside, watching from the stairway as Dudley and Aunt Petunia had trimmed the tree, listening to the stories they’d told about each ornament and how it had come to them. Standing in the kitchen, cooking them a festive brunch while Dudley had opened his mounds of gifts. How he’d longed to be a part of _something_ , and how he’d found that at Hogwarts. How he’d promised himself, that dark lonely Christmas on the run, that one day he’d have his own tree with lights, his own ornaments with stories to tell, and his own family. How he wants to blend his Muggle history with all that magic has given him, to create something new and beautiful, and all his own, that no one can ever take away.

Harry falls silent, wipes his eyes and holds his breath.

This thing with Draco. It had started as something small. Apologies and a new start had become frantic kissing and sloppy blowjobs after pub night. Something hidden, contained. But it had changed recently, filling Harry up and spilling over into mornings after, dinners out, game nights with friends, and now, Draco’s here more often than he’s home, and Harry’s always finding traces of him about the flat. Empty tea mugs in unlikely places, a sock in his laundry. The crimson towels.

“Harry,” Draco says, “Can you look at me?”

Harry opens his eyes and looks up into that beloved face, angled now rather than pointy, and the light in Draco’s eyes has Harry exhaling on a sigh. He hasn’t said the words yet, neither of them have, but it’s so clear to him now that it’s only a matter of time.

“Could we…” Draco says hesitantly, “Could we do the bubble charm too? In addition to the lights and things? I always loved those, at Hogwarts.”

Harry feels a smile start to spread across his face as he imagines it. The lights low, a fire roaring and their friends laughing as they put the tree together. He imagines piles of gifts and blinking lights and shining bubbles, and in the morning, making Draco breakfast while he sits on the counter in his pants and Harry’s t-shirt, drinking coffee as he wakes up slowly.

Harry reaches up, traces his finger across Draco’s jaw and pulls him down for a kiss.

“That sounds perfect,” he whispers, and Draco smiles.


	5. Mashup Tropes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> OKAY Drarry: Circus AU and Awful First Meeting 
> 
> First published on Tumblr: 26 August 2018

WELL it’s a few years after the war. Harry’s been drifting, lost. After you fulfil your destiny at 17, what comes next? Harry has no idea. He’s been drinking too much coffee in the mornings and too much whiskey at night. He’s been going to muggle clubs, staying out ‘til the lights go off and the sun comes up. He says he’s having fun but the bags under his eyes tell a different story. He’s been reading comic books, listening to Beethoven, and he’s learned to crochet. He makes blankets for orphans. He’s got enough gold to live 300 years without worry, and isn’t that a depressing thought? 

He’s still got his friends, of course, but they’ve all seemed to adjust to a post-Voldemort world a bit more easily. Ron and Hermione, they’ve got a whole future planned out, a future that’s going to come to fruition whether Harry’s here or not. They’ve got plans - a wedding, babies. Careers. Harry knows he’ll always fit with them, but he can’t quite figure out where.

Seamus tells him to get laid; Luna tells him to go to this amazing mermaid mind healer she met at a festival; and Ginny. Ginny laughs in his face when he says they should get married, and says, “Harry, absolutely not. You’d be better off joining the circus,” and Harry thinks _hmmmmmm_. 

So he does. Seamus has a friend whose cousin’s wife’s uncle owns a travelling fair, so Harry gets a portkey to Ireland and seeks them out. 

The last things he’s expecting when he walks under the Big Top is to see Draco Malfoy, in tights and a spangly leotard vaulting through the air. Clearly, it’s also the last thing Draco expects, because he catches sight of Harry just as he reaches out for the trapeze swinging towards him.

And he misses.

He misses, and he falls. He bounces down onto the safety net, landing face down, arms and legs spread wide like a starfish, eyes even wider. They stare at each other, and Harry can’t look away as Malfoy rolls to his back, manages to get to the edge, where he neatly somersaults himself over and lowers himself down. He marches over and Harry takes a deep breath, holds out his hand to say something, anything.

Draco punches him in the face.


	6. Poem for Gina

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> My dearest Gina @twopoppies
> 
> So, I’m really really blessed to call Gina friend, and I have to tell you, she’s as amazing as you’d think, and more. 
> 
> I told her this morning that I should write her a porn but autocorrect thought it should be a poem instead, and so this happened, which isn’t really a porn and might not even be a poem, but it’s what I have to offer. 
> 
> Love you baby, artist, friend, fellow introvert, tastemaker (mine anyway). This is for you, and after this, perhaps a porn!! 
> 
> xox
> 
> First published on Tumblr: 7 July 2018

It does not matter  
who takes, who gives  
Who offers, who receives  
Who holds on and who lets go  
There is no difference in the dark  
When body is pressed to body and  
Heart to heart.

We will meet each other there,  
In the gasp and the push  
The press and the release  
You are in me and I, in you  
Where love is a verb  
In the night, in the fire  
In the flame we create


	7. “If you die, I’m gonna kill you.” (Drarry)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> homosociallyyours asked: Giving you 2 prompts but you can pick one if you'd prefer! 44-drarry, 50-larry xoxo
> 
> OOOo THANK YOU!!! xox
> 
> Okay, I think I’m going to do just one tonight and I’ll do one tomorrow! (As always, these are SOOC!) I feel like I should actually put a little warning on this - there’s no graphic description of violence but there is discussion of violence. There is no MCD but this might be unsettling so don’t read if you don’t think you’re in a good place!! (And, err, sorry @homosociallyyours, the next one will be MUCH more fun and quite possible smutty, I promise! This just went dark!)
> 
> Originally published on Tumblr: 22 April 2018

The alarm sounds throughout St. Mungo’s, and Draco flinches, freezes for about one second and then runs, tossing the remains of his sandwich into the trash as he goes. That’s the alarm for all MED (Magical Emergency Department) healers, where Draco happens to be second in the chain of command, serving under the most talented healer he’s ever seen, and after four years of healer training and 15 years in the field, that’s saying something. **  
**

He races into the department and skids to a halt next to her.

“What have we got?”

Hermione looks concerned. “Multiple injuries incoming. Aurors and civilians.” She swallows. “It was a bomb, Draco. A muggle bomb. I’ve called in some contacts from St. Georges, but this is going to be overwhelming. It was a protest for that Auror recruiting event.”

She hands over the parchment and Draco examines it quickly, his heart sinking. The first day of Spring in Diagon Alley. Draco can only imagine the crowd that had been there, taking advantage of the Solstice Sales. The Aurors and recent Hogwarts graduates interested in applying to the corps. Retired elders enjoying the sun. Office workers popping out on their lunch break for an ice cream treat. Mothers. Children. The bomb had exploded at exactly 12:17, and Draco can only imagine the result.

“Where was it?” he asks distractedly as he scans the descriptions of the wounds that are being stabilized for transport.

Hermione takes a deep breath. “Just outside Ollivander’s.”

Draco blanches and then remembers. “Oh, he’s off today. He’s been training Jessica as a manager, and she’s finally taken over some of the day shifts so he can get back to wand design.” He shakes his head. “Merlin, my heart just stopped for a moment.”

He feels a flash of guilt at the powerful wave of relief he’d felt as he’d realized there was no way his husband had been there, because about to come through those doors are too many people having the worst day of their lives, and worse, he thinks, are the ones who won’t be going home at all. Six dead at the scene, the note reads. Six dead, so far. Something else occurs to him.

“Ron,” he says urgently, “Hermione, what about Ron?”

“He’s in Scotland on that tactical training course, remember?” Hermione’s face shows the same guilt and relief that Draco knows his own does. “He was so pleased to miss the recruiting event, he hates those. I’m sure he’ll be on the next portkey back, as soon as he hears.”

“Okay.” Draco nods. Takes a deep breath.

He grabs the nearest nurse. “We’re going to need to need every blood replenishing potion you can get your hands on. I want you to alert St. Catchpole’s that we’ll need theirs too; they’re getting the less severely wounded, they won’t need it as urgently.”

The nurse nods and takes off at a run and Draco gives thanks once more for the dedicated and tight knit staff he and Hermione have created here. Full trust, no questions asked. They’ll never need it as badly as they will today, he thinks.

He grabs a resident as he takes off towards the supplies storeroom. “Michael, grab Soo Jung and Aditya, we’re going to need supplies. Be back here in 10 minutes, we’re going to need every hand on deck.”

Michael, nods, pale. These are first year residents and they’ve not had a tragedy like this before. Draco crumples the parchment in his hand and sighs. None of them have, not since the war. Another thought occurs to him, and he grabs Hermione as she races by.

“We should ask Sophie to floo Healer Kumar and Healer Levy, they were running the MED during the war. We need them.”

“Great idea,” Hermione nods. “You’re organizing supplies? I just got Kingsley’s patronus, they’re about three minutes away from sending in who they’ve got stabilized.”

Draco nods, and watches Hermione run off. He has to admit, you’ve got to be a little bit crazy to thrive in the MED, and he knows Hermione feels the same, they’ve talked about it. The way that time seems to slow down, the way they’re able to narrow their focus onto this exact moment, no more, no less. They way they can draw from years of knowledge without even knowing how they’re doing it. He feels it come over him as he moves into position in the portkey bay. He takes a deep breath, and then he watches and waits.

Suddenly movement explodes around him; there’s shouting and screaming, there’s the scent of fear and something like smoke and fire. There are bodies all around him and Draco wades in, doing what he does best.

He shouts orders and directs his team, leaping in to hold a stasis or cast a bind as needed. They come in waves and his team absorbs them all, one after the other. Finally, the portkey bay is cleared and Kingsley’s patronus comes through, informing them that that’s the last of the severely wounded, and the rest are being shunted to various hospitals around England. Only St. Mungo’s has the top-trained trauma healers, not to mention the best MED in Europe, Draco thinks a bit smugly as he wipes his hands off on his robes, which are already filthy and stained beyond repair. He’s allowing himself a moment to breath before heading back into the havoc inside when Hermione appears in front of him, white-faced and trembling and he rears back in shock as he knows, _he knows_ what she’s about to say.

“No,” he whispers, holding out a hand in desperate appeal, “ No, Hermione.”

She shakes and he watches as she pulls herself together through sheer force of will. “Draco, come with me now.”

“Is he dead? What the fuck was he doing there?”

She shakes her head. “He’s not dead. Or he wasn’t when I left. He’s not even the most badly hurt, but the damage is… extensive.”

They break into a run as they burst through the doors into the MED, and Draco can’t even think about the chaos surrounding him as Hermione leads him down the hall to one of the curtained-off cubicles. He hears shouting and commotion.

“Fuck, fuck,” a woman’s voice shouts out, hoarse and raspy, as if she’s been shouting for hours. “He’s in afib, I’m gonna cast again, fucking hold him still, Michael,” and then there’s a crack and a flash of light.

Hermione grabs Draco’s hand and holds him back, and he knows he can’t go in there, can’t interfere right now, but to be on the other side of this curtain while _his husband_ is in there, it’s ripping him in two and Draco’s not sure he’s ever been this scared in his life. He sends every ounce of his strength, his love for this man, through the curtain where Harry lies on a gurney, fighting for his life.

“He wasn’t even supposed to be there, Hermione. What the fuck was he doing?”

Draco stumbles backwards until he’s pressed up against the corridor wall, slips down so that he’s huddled on the cold tile floor, presses his hands to his knees to keep from shaking apart. He scrubs one arm roughly across his eyes as his vision blurs and tears spill hotly down his cheeks. Hermione slides down next to him, wraps an arm around him and pulls him in close and Draco lets himself lean against her for one brief, eternal moment.

“He can’t ever leave well-enough alone, can he? You fucking bastard, Potter. If you die, I’m going to fucking _kill_ you.”


	8. Beach Date

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> To help you avoid things! Drarry on a beach date. Just chilling, swimming, having a picnic. Cutesy things😬
> 
> Originally posted on Tumblr:

_Thank you anon!! Well, this got a tiny bit out of control and turned into FLUFF FLUFF FLUFF!! But here you go. xoxox_

“UGH.”

Draco picks his way across the damp sand, a moue of disgust on his face.

“What?” Harry asks a bit defensively.

So sue him, they haven’t been together that long, is the thing. Sure, after the war, things were stupidly awkward for a long time, but then they’d connected, being in similar lines of work (okay, so Harry works on humans and Draco works on animals, whatever). The work connection had led to drinks after work, which had led to dinner (and on one notable occasion, blow jobs in the loo of the Leaky), and dinner had led to breakfast and hanging out and finally telling their friends, and now, here they are, dating. Which has led to such terrible things as companionship. Feelings. The not unreasonable expectation of declarations of love in the near future. And, the problem more immediately at hand: anniversaries.

That last one is the worst because today is their 17-week anniversary and Draco has asked Harry to plan something and it has to be special. 17 weeks! That’s a long time. Actually, Harry’s not entirely sure how long that is, but it feel substantial. Almost 20 weeks. That’s a lot. Some number of months. And, however much he protests, Harry is actually kind of head over heels in love with Draco, and wants Draco to know how much he means to him. Maybe today he’ll even tell him.

So, he’s planned a romantic picnic on the beach, complete with a tablecloth, a wine that the wine shop guy has assured him will impress even the most discerning palate, and Luna’s molten chocolate mini-cakes which actually have firework charms embedded in them to go off when you slice into them. He’s got his wand tuned into the WWN Classical 2, exploding snap, and has been practicing his sunscreen charm all week. The one thing he appears to have neglected to do is find out if Draco Malfoy actually… enjoys going to the beach.

He’s apparated them to Devon. The tide is on its way out, leaving a vast expanse of damp sand and the distinct scent of fish. Not to mention the occasional trail of seaweed. Or kelp. Harry wishes for a moment he’d spent more time learning that difference because he’s pretty sure that Draco would be impressed. He pictures himself, pouring Draco a glass of the very expensive wine, and expounding on the difference.

“People think they’re the same,” he would say with gentle laugh, imagining the awed looked on Draco’s face, “but of course, at the cellular level, they’re completely different.”

Harry has exactly zero idea if this is true or not, but he imagines Draco would just nod and look a little anxious at how little he knows of the natural world, and…

His daydream of how his impromptu lecture on kelp might lead to public cock-sucking is interrupted by Draco whacking him over the head with a magazine.

“Tune the fuck back in, Potter,” Draco says exasperatedly. “Come on. Where do you want to set up? I assume you don’t have actual flotation devices in that basket of yours, do you? So we want to stay on dry land?”

Harry starts and says quickly, “Oh. Uh,” he looks around, unable to distinguish one part of sand from another. “Yeah, here’s fine.”

He drops the basket and crouches down to start pulling things out of it. He quickly unshrinks two beach chairs that he’s transfigured from a couple of footstools, and sets them out with the quilt at their feet.

“You hungry?” He asks Draco, who rolls his eyes.

“We literally had lunch twenty minutes ago, Potter. And if I’d known we were portkeying, I probably wouldn’t have had the shrimp.”

Harry looks closely and has to admit, Draco does look a little green. He hates portkeying even more than Harry does, and that’s saying a lot, but the only thing Harry hates more than portkeying is apparating, and it would have taken them hours to fly from London to Devon.

“I’m sorry, babe,” he says sincerely, and takes a deep breath. “I just wanted to make this special for you.”

“Special for me?” Draco stares at him and the drops into one of the beach chairs, which doesn’t take kindly to this and decides suddenly to become, well, an unchair, Harry thinks. Not really back to its original footstool form, just more of a pile of canvas and metal tubing really. Draco sprawls across the sand and simply sighs, closing his eyes.

“Make what special for me, Harry?”

Draco is still prone on the ground and Harry isn’t quite sure if he should just leave him there in case the shrimp luncheon decides to make a sudden reentry into the world, or help him up.

“Our anniversary?” Harry doesn’t like the tentative tone of his own voice, but something feels a bit off to him. “Last week. You said we’d been together almost 17 weeks, and that it was a really important milestone, and you wanted me to plan something special to commemorate the momentous occasion.’”

He quirks his fingers in the air as he speaks.

Draco rolls over and breathes deeply for a moment. “I said what now? When?”

“At the Leaky? After that day where you’d been out at the birth for like, 32 hours? And then we had drinks? And…”

Oh. Harry’s voice trails off as he starts to understand.

“You were drunk,” he says.

Draco is staring at him. “I was absolutely legless, Harry.”

Harry drops into the remaining chair and waits for it to dump him on the sand, and there’s a flurry of limbs and canvas as the chair does not disappoint and he lands on the sand next to Draco.

“I’m such an idiot,” he groans.

Draco rolls over to sling one arm across Harry’s chest. “So what you’re saying it, I got completely pissed and convinced you that 17 weeks was an important achievement, and then guilted you into planning this lovely outing?”

Harry flings an arm over his eyes. “In my defence, you were extremely convincing,” he grinds out between clenched teeth.

He’s spent far too much on paté and been worrying for the last week that he wasn’t going to be able to live up to Draco’s expectations.

“Did I cry?” Draco asks, sounding a bit too delighted for Harry’s tastes.

“Not… exactly.”

“What did I do? I mean, here we are, so yeah, I guess I was convincing.”

Harry sighs and curls into Draco, ignoring the wet sand in his hair.

“You just sort of… I don’t know. Your lip quivered, and your eyes got really full.”

“Did I let one tear drizzle down my cheek? I’m only asking for science,” Draco says, clearly trying not to laugh and Harry barks out a laugh.

“Yeah, just one, and I carefully wiped it away with my thumb.”

“You did? Oooo that’s a good move,” Draco says, clearly impressed. “Very romantic.”

“I just…” Harry’s voice drifts off and he bites his tongue.

“You what?” Draco’s tone has changed.

It’s soft and tentative and hopeful and all of a sudden, Harry knows. They don’t need wine or paté or stable chairs that maintain their shape. All they need is right here on the sand, and it’s each other.

“I wanted to make sure you have what you need,” Harry says finally, “Because I love you.”

He looks over and Draco’s face is lit up like the sunset, like Luna’s firework cakes, like the most beautiful thing Harry’s ever seen, and before Draco even says it, Harry knows. He knows all the way down what Draco’s going to say, and he knows it’s real. It’s true, it’s honest, and it’s forever.

“Well,” Draco says, grinning like a loon, “That’s very handy, Potter, because I happen to be in love with you too.”


	9. Clutch (Larry)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted on Tumblr: 22 March 2018

_Thank you, anon! I’m not going to hold myself to a strict drabble limit, but I’m going to try and write just a glimpse of something!_

**  
**Niall elbows Louis in the ribs, who doubles over in dramatic agony, gasping and wailing. They’re sitting on the senior steps, which are, by tradition, reserved for the graduating class to hang out, show off, and scope out the rest of the school. **  
**

“What the fuck, Horan?” Louis sits back up, closing his eyes and tilting his face up to the noonday sun. It’s sixteen days to graduation, and he can’t fucking wait. He’s got a scholarship to UVM where he plans to be premed, he and Niall are going to be roomates, he’s already locked in his financial aid so he’s not even going to bankrupt his mom, and he can’t wait to move to Burlington after 18 years in this small town. There’s only one thing missing.

His eyes follow the tall boy who’s walking across the courtyard, talking animatedly with arguably the most attractive boy at MUHS, who’s way too good looking for a sophomore. Harry Styles. Louis thinks his eyes may actually have morphed into heart shapes as he watches Harry trip over an uneven flagstone, and glance around self-consciously.

“You gotta make a move.” Niall pronounces, tossing another cafeteria fry into his mouth. “Come the fuck on, man. Grow a pair.”

Louis watches Harry glance over to the steps where they’re sitting, and sees the blush that stains his cheeks as he catches sight of Louis, and gives a small wave as Zayn nudges him and snickers.

“Don’t fucking clutch now, Tomlinson. You’re almost out of time. It’s now or never,” Niall shouts, beginning to attract attention from the other students lounging around the courtyard. “It’s fucking do or die.”

Louis glares at him. “Shut up, c’mon. He’ll hear you.”

“Oh, I’m counting on it,” Niall says with a crooked grin as Harry stops dead and stares at Louis.

“Niall,” Louis says in a stern voice even as he rises to his feet, “What did you fucking do?”

Niall shrugs, eats another fry. “I only ever act in your best interest, babe. You know that. So come, man up, go get your boy.”

Louis curses as he moves across the courtyard until he sees the look on Harry’s face, hopeful and thrilled, and realizes he’s got nothing to fear here.

He jogs up to the other boy and grins, feeling like he’s about to leap off the high board at the pool.

“Hey Harry, you got a minute?”


	10. 3 Prompts for Drabbles (Larry)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Originally published on Tumblr: 13 November 2017
> 
> myownsparknow asked: Drabble ideas: what does your character see out the window? What's this piece of jewelry all about? Why did that phone call make your character so happy/sad/afraid/relieved? Write a drabble including the words "please" and "thank you." :)))
> 
> I LOVE YOU!!! And I hope you like them, my darling!!

_**1\. What does your character see out the window?** _

Harry leans his head against the window. It’s raining — pouring in fact — and even though there’s a fire roaring in the fireplace behind him, he shivers as he presses his cheeks to the glass. He’s been waiting, for weeks it feels like, but over an hour.

_Getting off now, I’ll see you soon, miss you love you etc etc_

Then he sees the taxi pull up at the curb. A moment later, he hears the front door open and a voice calls out, “Love, I’m home,” and even though the weather hasn’t changed, it feels like the sun is shining.

_**2\. What’s this piece of jewellery all about?** _

When Louis gets back from the bathroom, he’s so busy chattering away about who he’d just seen at the bar, _Paris Hilton, I swear to god, Harry, and she’s holding one of those handbag dogs, it was so cute,_ that it takes him a moment to notice that their dinner plates have been cleared away. A dessert plate is sitting at his place setting, and resting in the middle of it is a black velvet box, opened to show the sparkling ring inside. Louis pauses mid-sentence, and inhales.

So, love,” he says quietly, “What’s this piece of jewelry all about?

_**3\. Why did that phone call make your character so happy/sad/afraid/relieved?** _

Harry hangs up the phone and swallows, before turning to look at Louis, who’s looking back at him with a steadfast gaze, just as he’s done for the last twenty-five years.

Harry clears his throat. “It was positive, Lou.”

Louis’ eyes close for a moment, and then he opens them, the anguish clear.

“What do we do now?”

Harry says softly, “We’ll meet with the doctors on Thursday. More tests, then we’ll see.”

Louis just nods, then rises to standing and moves over to pull Harry into a tight embrace.

“Remember,” he says, “For better and for worse, my love.”

_**4\. Write a drabble including the words “please” and “thank you.”** _

“Please,” Louis whispers, “You have to listen to me, Harry. _Please._ ”

His fingers are knotting together as he stands, humbled and penitent on the hearth, his eyes full of tears, and his voice choked.

“No,” Harry says, “I can’t even stand to look at you right now. I don’t want to listen to anything you have to say.”

“You must know, I never meant to hurt you.” Louis moves towards him, and Harry throws out a hand.

“Stop,” he hisses, “Don’t come any closer.”

Their eyes lock upon each other, and then into the silence, a voice calls out:

_“CUT!_ ”


	11. #16 “I’m not good at this. I never have been.” (Larry Drabble)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted on Tumblr: 4 March 2018

Harry takes one last look in the mirror. His shoes are shined, his curls are tamed, at least, as much as they possibly could be. There’s a limit to the physics of his hair, he thinks. His best suit, fresh from the cleaners, fits him perfectly, and the muted green swirls of his tie bring out his eyes, or so Perrie says. He gives his anxious reflection one last nod, and turns away, trying to quell the butterflies in his stomach. It’ll be fine. It’s going to be fine.

It’s not fine.

Three hours later, Harry is standing alone by the punch bowl, holding a glass of some unidentifiable sticky-sweet red liquid. He’s floating somewhere between rage and despair, and it’s unclear to him if the target of this mass of emotion is himself or the man who is currently working the other side of the room, who has barely glanced at him once all night.

They’ve not been together long, just a few months, though Harry’s been pining for Louis Tomlinson for years. They’d grown up together in their small New England town, but lost touch when Louis had headed west to California for college, while, two years later, Harry had elected to stay close to home, moving just over the mountains to New Hampshire.

They hadn’t been friends, exactly, in high school. In part, with Louis being a bit older, their friend groups hadn’t overlapped much. Also, Louis had been somewhat of a star in high school: talented athlete, star of the drama club, he’d even played drums in a garage band that occasionally played at the under-18 night once a month at the Alibi in town. Harry, had run with a different crowd: debate team, academic decathlon, marching band. So, they hadn’t been friends, but they hadn’t been enemies, and Harry had nursed his crush all four years.

He’d expected Louis to stay out west once his parents split up, so it had been the shock of his life when he’d been introduced to the new group of law school interns at the firm where he’s been an associate for three years. Harry had attended law school right out of college, and gone through the same intern-to-associate program that Louis has just completed. They’re in different tracks: Harry is on the immigration law side, while Louis is in the family law track. 

At first, they’d been simply friendly. Louis was new to Boston, and Harry, squashing all thoughts of his former crush, had simply tried to help Louis settle into his new life in the city. But then, three months ago, they’d both ended up in the associates staff lounge late one night, working over take-out from Thai King and, well. One thing had led to another.

Even though there’s no impropriety in their relationship – Harry is mentoring a different intern, they’re in different tracks, etc. – Louis had wanted to keep things quiet until the formal offer letters had gone out. But, Harry knows that Louis hand-delivered his signed letter on Wednesday, and it’s the end of the semester party that the firm throws for all the students who’ve completed the program. They’d talked about this, going public to the firm. Harry’s read the employee handbook, it’s allowed, so he can’t figure out what’s gone wrong and why Louis apparently isn’t even speaking to him.

Okay, so that’s not entirely true. This is the embodiment of Harry’s worst fears that had sprouted after, early in their relationship, Louis had talked a bit about his dating past. Harry had been shocked to learn that Louis hasn’t dated anyone longer than about 2 months, and seems to harbor a deep-seated suspicion of relationships that belie his words whispered late at night, tender confessions murmured into Harry’s curls. 

This goes on for another hour, Louis charming everyone within sight, and Harry standing by the punch bowl. He tries to mingle, he really does, but he gets distracted when he hears Louis’ full-throated laugh from across the room. Finally, Harry sets down his small glass, runs a sticky hand through his hair, and gives up. All night, it’s been like he and Louis are magnets aligned to the same pole, repelling each other when they get too close. He’s never felt like this before, and certainly never with Louis. He closes his eyes against the onslaught of emotion, and heads for the door.

He pauses one last time as he looks around. Perrie’s gives him a concerned look and a wave, and he just shrugs. He glances over to where Louis is, and his breath catches, because, for the first time this night, their eyes meet and hold. This time, however, it’s Harry who turns away. 

He makes his way down to the hotel lobby and he’s just pushing through the revolving door when he hears his name being shouted. He stumbles out onto the street and pauses, heart aching, and watches Louis push impatiently at the heavy plate-glass door.

“Harry.” Louis is breathless, like he’s chased after Harry. “Where are you going?”

Harry stares at him, confused. “What? I’m going home, Louis.”

Louis runs a hand through his hair and takes a deep breath. “Look, I know you’re probably…” His voice trails off and he squares his shoulders. “I mean, I’m guessing you’re pretty pissed at me.”

Harry says, amazed at how even his voice sounds, “That’s part of it, yeah.”

“I just.” Louis stops. “Can we talk? Go somewhere quiet and talk?”

He glances around at the bustling crowd of a Saturday night in Copley Square. 

Harry gives a bitter laugh. “Nah, I think I got your message loud and clear, Lou. No worries.” 

He turns, feeling his heart actually breaking in his chest, his foolish hopes shattering on the sidewalk as he moves away.

“Harry,” Louis’ voice is urgent. “Please don’t walk away. I know I fucked up. I just. I’m not good at this. I never have been.”

Harry stops and turns. His eyes fill and he impatiently dashes away the tears, aware that people are starting to stare. 

“Not good at what, Louis? Love? Relationships?” He sees Louis’ eyes widen at the word they haven’t used yet. “Look, I don’t particularly want to be all lovey-dovey at work either, but I don’t want to hide who I am, or who you are to me. You couldn’t even look at me tonight, Lou. And that. It just _hurt_ , okay? Like you’re ashamed of me. Of us.”

“What?” Shock blooms across Louis’ face. “Harry, no. Of course not.”

Harry holds onto the anger that’s driving him now. “Then what, Louis? What the fuck was that? Because what am I supposed to think? I’m good enough to fuck in private? Call you my boyfriend in private? It seems to me that it’s either that, or you don’t want any of this any more, and you’re too much of a fucking coward to tell me. So you get my hopes up and then drop me without a word.”

Louis actually pales, his shoulders hunching as if Harry’s words are hitting him like a blow. “Harry, no,” he whispers, so Harry can barely hear him. “It’s not that at all.”

Harry throws up his hands in frustation. “Then what?” He practically shouts the words. “What the fuck is going on?”

“I love you, that’s what,” Louis roars and the crowd that seems to have formed around them inhales. “I fucking love you, and it scares the shit out of me. My whole life, I’ve seen what love does, Harry, and as far as I can tell, it destroys you. My dad fucked off. Mark fucked off. In college, I really let myself care about this guy and he fucked off after a couple of months. ‘It’s been fun, bro, but yeah. Too heavy for me. Gotta split.’” His voice mocks the Southern California drawl. “So excuse me, if I don’t know how to do this.” 

And with that, Harry’s anger drops, leaving exhaustion and sorrow.

“Louis,” he says gently, and Louis’ head whips up as their eyes meet. “I love you. I have for ages. But I can’t…” his voice breaks and he sighs. “If that’s not enough, if you can’t take the risk, I’m not sure there’s anything I can say to convince you.”

As he turns to walk away, he hears Louis choke out, “I want to love you, Harry, but I don’t know how.”

Harry pauses, but doesn’t turn back to Louis. “Well, let me know if you want to learn. It’s up to you.”


	12. Happier (Drarry)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Originally published on Tumblr: 4 April 2018Anonymous asked:
> 
> hello hi hey this is aibidil! made up fic title: "You Were My First, My Last (My Nothing)" (lolol)
> 
> hello hi hey @aibidil I MEAN YOU HAD TO MAKE IT TOUGH ON ME. 
> 
> But you know what I just realized - I have the beginnings of something based on Ed Sheeran’s Happier, and I’m not sure what I’m going to do with it, so I am going to give it to you!! As always, this is SOOC.

Draco sits quietly, waiting for Blaise to return from the bar with their drinks. 

He’s been low for weeks now, and Blaise had finally snapped that morning, saying, “That is it, Draco. We’re going out for drinks after work and you will tell me what the fuck is going on with you.” His eyes has softened as he’d added, “I’m just worried about you, mate. We all are. You’re not yourself.”

Draco hadn’t looked up from the cursed muggle chess set that he had been working on, but had finally nodded and said quietly, “Fine, we can go for drinks.”

He doesn’t want to talk about it though. Doesn’t want to relive that last terrible morning, the look on Harry’s face when Draco had finally spoken, the shame of his own cowardice ripping through him like a blade. 

_I can’t, Harry. Why can’t you understand? It’s bad enough that I refuse to have children, so that the family line ends with me. I can’t be gay, not in my family. And I certainly can’t show up at the Manor with you on my arm, why don’t you understand that?_

Draco closes his eyes against the memory of the finality in Harry’s voice, when he’d said The worst part is, Draco. I do. I do understand. But I can’t live like this anymore. I just can’t. I’m sorry. 

The soft click of the door closing behind Harry as he’d left had broken Draco’s heart, and the fact that it’s his own damn fault doesn’t ease the pain in any way. 

He manages to muddle his way through the rest of the workday, and 6:00 finds him here, sitting with Blaise on a Friday afternoon on a beautiful early summer day. They’re at the Elegant Dove, the newest hot spot in Diagon, and they’ve managed to snag one of the best tables, that looks directly out to the street. It’s the perfect place to see and be seen, and it leaves Draco cold.

Blaise slides into the seat across from him, and sets a pint down in front of him.

“Drink,” he says firmly, “And then talk.”

Draco takes a sip of the beer, and sighs, wiping the foam from his lip. “I’m not sure what you want me to say, Blaise.”

Blaise rolls his eyes. “Draco. I’ve known you since we were two years old. You can’t hide it.” He reaches out to cover Draco’s hand with his own, and Draco sighs, turning to thread his fingers through his friend’s. “I know what you look like scared. And happy. And angry. And,” he pauses. “Heartbroken.” 

His eyes are dark and knowing as he squeezes Draco’s hand, and Draco feels his throat thicken.

“It’s just not going to work out.” Draco sighs, because of course it’s not going to work out. How could it? That they’d even come together at all still boggles the mind. 

Blaise takes a sip of wine and says delicately, “I wasn’t… aware that you’d been seeing anyone.”

Draco runs a hand through his hair, which after a day of work is flopping down over his forehead and into his eyes. “No. We were keeping it quiet.”

Blaise quirks an eyebrow but says nothing and just drinks some more wine.

Draco leans back in his chair. “I just. There were reasons why.”

Blaise just gives a small smile and says, “You don’t owe me any explanations, Draco. It’s just. You were so happy, and then. Well, then you weren’t.”

As Draco drinks his lager and thinks about what to say, he hears a girl at the table next to him suddenly squeal to her friend, “Holy Circe, there’s Harry Potter,” and he can’t help his sudden movement. He knows Blaise sees it happen and makes the connection, he’s always been to smart for his own good, the sly Slytherin bastard, and a look of such gentle understanding crosses his face before he shakes his head.

“Merlin, Draco, really?”

Draco just stares at him, and the commotion around them gets louder, and then, heart pounding, Draco looks over and sees him.

Harry is wandering down Diagon Alley, where he’s clearly just come from work. He’s wearing a slim cut muggle suit with the jacket open and his tie undone and hanging around his neck and all of sudden Draco is overwhelmed with memories and can’t breathe.

_Running into Harry at that muggle club, and Harry pinning him to the wall in that filthy alley and kissing Draco until he was dizzy. Both of them sneaking off from work to go to the muggle cinema, and Harry shyly reaching for Draco’s hand, running his thumb over Draco’s palm. Late night conversations. Laughter. Tears. Anger. Forgiveness. Verbal jousting ending in steaming passion rather than violence. A long weekend in the South of France, drinking wine and eating strawberries. Kissing in the rain and early morning love-making. Ever romantic cliche that Draco had ever dreamed of come to life._

Gone now, though, all of that, because Harry is not alone. There’s another man walking next to him, his arm slung round Harry’s shoulders as if he has a right to touch him. This man is saying something, and Harry starts grinning. Draco knows Harry is nowhere near as oblivious to the stares and conversations he and this man are leaving in their wake as he appears to be, but he certainly seems caught up in this man. Draco watches the way Harry’s eyes are crinkled with laughter, and he’s not sure he’s ever seen Harry’s smile quite so bright.


	13. Embroidery & americanos (Drarry)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Originally published on Tumblr: 4 April 2018
> 
> chronically-fragile asked: Fic title for you: Embroidery & americanos
> 
> So apparently I can’t actually write ABOUT a title, I just have to… start the fic?? SORRY!!

Harry storms into the coffee shop, letting the door slam behind him, and Louis, from where he’s sitting across the room at their usual table, raises an eyebrow. Harry seems to be fuming; normally he’d never let the door slam behind him like that. Harry looks around him as if trying to catch his breath and collect his thoughts, and then sees Louis. He makes his way across the room and slumps into the chair.

“Got you one of those ridiculously overpriced americanos you love,” Louis says, nudging the cup across scarred table. 

After four years of best friendship, not to mention pining madly, Louis has learned to read Harry pretty well, and right now, he’s not just pissed, he’s freaking out a bit.

“What’s wrong?” Louis asks, and Harry huffs out a sigh and then slumps over his mug.

“Just met with the registrar, and I’m one credit short. As of right now, I can’t graduate. This fucking sucks, Lou. I’m already accepted to med school and I’ve got that internship starting, like the day after graduation and I have to have my fucking bachelor’s in hand. I’m already completely overloaded this semester as it.”

Harry gulps down his coffee and gives a peculiar half-cough/half-gurgle that has Louis snickering for a moment. 

“What are you missing?” he asks practically. He’s got 6 younger siblings, he knows how to fix problems and calm down tantrums. It’s not a gift, it’s just practice.

“Humanities. Apparently, experimental playwriting was only two credits, not three. Fucking humanities,” Harry snarls, as if the Renaissance has personally insulted him, and a girl sitting two tables over looks offended. “I’ve got to find some one-credit class to take. Nickerson said that he’ll be lenient in the requirements since they really should have flagged this last semester.”

Harry rummages in his backpack and then pulls out a battered catalogue. “I’ve got to pick something today and email Nickerson by 5.”

Louis glances at the clock. “Err, Harry, it’s 4:40,” he says carefully and Harry sighs.

He morosely flips open the catalogue to the humanities electives section, and they stare for a moment at the lacklustre selection. 

“Just pick one,” Louis says finally. “Just close your eyes and point, and pick one. You’ve got 5 minutes, Harold. Make a choice.”

Harry presses his lips together and sighs, nodding. He squeezes his eyes closed and Louis looks away, his treacherous heart leaping in his chest at the sight of Harry’s ridiculous face. Harry picks up his right arm, wiggles his stupidly large hand and then slams his finger down onto the page and opens his eyes.

“The History of Embroidery in the Middle Ages” he reads out slowly and then lifts a baffled gaze to Louis. “What the fuck?”


End file.
